Welcome to Hyperion Records, an independent British classical label devoted to presenting high-quality recordings of music of all styles and from all periods from the twelfth century to the twenty-first.

Hyperion offers both CDs, and downloads in a number of formats. The site is also available in several languages.

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Recordings

'Peter Holman's flair for drama illuminates the evocative settings of these lesser-known composers. Both conducting and sound quality capture the nuan ...'As ever, the disc is a revelation … Once heard this infectious music is not easily forgotten, which is a tribute to the enthusiasm and convictio ...» More

The spheres, those instruments divine,
Tun’d to Apollo’s charming lyre,
The sons of all the learned Nine
With soft harmonious souls inspire;
Behold, round Parnassus’ top they sit,
And heav’nly Music now vies with immortal Wit.

Couch’d by the pleasant Heliconian spring,
Of bright Cecilia they sing;
Admir’d Cecilia that informs their brains;
The aweful goddess that their cause maintains,
And with her sacred pow’r supplies
The artful hand and tuneful voice,
And gives a taste of heav’nly bliss
In more than mortal strains.

And first the trumpet’s part
Inflames the hero’s heart;
The martial noise completes his joys
And soul inspires by art.
And now he thinks he’s in the field,
And now he makes the foe to yield.
Now victory does eagerly pursue,
And Music’s warlike notes make ev’ry fancy true.

The battle done, the loud alarms do cease,
Hark, how the charming flutes conclude the peace,
Whose soft’ning notes make fiercest rage obey.
If Pan, beneath the famous myrtle’s shade,
To Midas half so well had play’d,
The Delphian God himself had won the day.

Excesses of pleasure now crowd on apace;
How sweetly the violins sound to each bass;
The ravishing trebles delight ev’ry ear,
And mirth in a scene of true joy does appear.
No lover of Phillis’s rigour complains,
None mourn for their losses, or laugh for their gains;
But lost in an extasy publish their joy,
Whilst the name of Cecilia resounds to the sky.

Ah Heav’n! what is’t I hear?
The warbling lute enchants mine ear;
Now beauty’s pow’r inflames by breast again.
I sigh and languish with a pleasing pain;
The notes so soft, so sweet the air,
The soul of love must sure be there,
That mine in rapture charms, and drives away despair.
Ah Heav’n! what is’t I hear?

Music! celestial Music! what can be,
On this side Heav’n compar’d to thee?
Thou only treat fit for a deity:
Monarchs by flattery or fame
May arrogate a glorious name,
But in each soul-delighting symphony,
Address’d to bright Cecilia’s royalty,
Are sacred honours for none, but for divine degree.

This that blest king and god-like prophet knew,
That oft from worldly joys withdrew;
From glittering pomp, and all the courtly throng;
And to th’Eternal King of Kings,
To the sweet harp’s well-govern’d strings,
Paid best devotion in seraphic song.